


A Jaded Beauty and the Broken Beast

by Aetherrryn



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bittersweet, F/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 17:48:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21306080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aetherrryn/pseuds/Aetherrryn
Summary: Divergent paths; that does not mean they will not cross again.An outtake from my collection of one shots; Oh, the Quiet Days that Bind UsSet in the same Universe but set five years from most of the events that take place then.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Edelgard von Hresvelg, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Edelgard von Hresvelg
Comments: 11
Kudos: 64





	A Jaded Beauty and the Broken Beast

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the warnings; I'm posting this separately because this is, I guess, heavier than most of the fics I've posted in Quiet Days. I didn't want to pollute the relatively angst-less atmosphere I created over there.  
Also, this one was just much longer than the others and sort of took off with a life of it's own.

She truly did not enjoy attending them—these garish, overly extravagant so called charity galas. They were nothing but fronts for the wealthy to primp themselves like peacocks and flaunt their money and supposed generosity. That was she had always believed, that is. Regardless, she did not enjoy attending, but it was a necessary evil, one might say, of her station. 

The Hresvelg ‘empire’, built off of generations of toil, had been passed to her; the corporation was in her hands—and so too were these social obligations. 

The woman frowned at her reflection, dreading the ordeal. Either way; she was going to go, make her appearance, shake whosever hand she needed to, make another public donation, and go back home. She could put up her own front just as well as anyone else, or even better she might say. 

She swiveled her head to and fro, making certain that her hair had been styled to perfection—not a strand out of place. Appearance was, after all, everything. She lifted a finger and coiled a loose strand, left loose purposefully, into a relaxed curl and curved her crimson-painted lips into a practiced smile. It seemed genuine enough—to anyone that did not know her well. Her eyes remained frigid. 

The faux smile faded and the woman in the mirror appeared somber again; stoic. 

Edelgard cleared her throat and adjusted her suit-jacket, eyeing the golden clasps. Red. All red. She smoothed a hand down her slacks and ran her tongue over her teeth, tapping her foot against the floor in growing impatience. Any moment now. 

Her eyes flicked to the watch strapped to her wrist. 

The door heaved open and the thudding of footsteps broke the silence. “My lady.” As baroque as usual. Hubert was neither late, nor early—he arrived at precisely the time she had requested of him. “The escort is ready.” 

Without a beat of hesitation, the woman stood, fluidly swiping the white gloves off the vanity table. “Good.” She slid the smooth fabric over her hands as she turned away and began to stride towards him. 

The clicking of her heels against the corridor floor echoed and her countenance darkened. “Are they going to be present as well?” Of course she already knew the answer, but perhaps some part of her still desired to hear otherwise. 

Hubert hummed, keeping her pace with ease. “Yes, my lady.” The man answered gravely, knowing well her disdain. “Your uncle has declared his intent to attend.”

She sighed and adjusted her grip on her small purse, her gaze lingering on it briefly. It was a little heavy, but the discomfort was worth the assurance, even if all was presumed to go well. Hubert never failed to predict their encounters, never failed to develop a plan—and she did have faith in him. But still, the way that things had been these past few years…  
She would rather have at least some semblance of a tangible assurance. 

Rest assured no one would dare to ask her to look inside. At least, not with Hubert at her side. 

She often wondered why she had allowed herself to get tangled up in this web of treachery—why she had tainted her house’s name with the filth of the underworld.  
And was it too late to break free?

She scoffed at herself, her naïve thoughts. Of course it was. It was four years too late. To believe that they would let her simply defect, cut her ties with them now was pure idealism. A nice daydream, perhaps. 

From whence did they still arise—these impossible ideals? Why could she not quench their source? Her heart had surely frozen over—had it not? She had thought it had, the day she had seen the source of the infection of her childish optimism flashed over the news, over every possible media outlet.

He had died, so why had her feelings not died with him?  
As though prompted by the recollection of that accursed face, her heart jolted in the confines of her ribs and her breath stuttered—briefly. 

She pushed aside all thoughts of him, of those foolish notions and focused on her task. “He wishes to discuss the current state of things, does he?” Edelgard felt her brows furrow and released a sigh of irritation. 

“So it seems. You know they are growing concerned by the…integrity of your promises, which is utter drivel, of course.” Hubert offered, his voice growing frigid by the conclusion of his statement. He never did take kindly to any slander towards her name. 

The woman shook her head, annoyed by the very thought. “Well, I suppose that I shall simply have to make it clear to him. It has nothing to do with us.” She did not know why their transports were being targeted, nor by whom. She trusted her people; whatever leak on Intel there had been, she did not believe that it had been one of hers. Certainly she could not rule out the possibility, but…

Regardless, she would talk things over with him and set things right. The last thing she needed was to make an enemy of their organization.

.......................

There was a beast in the mirror. 

A grizzled hound guised as a man. 

Hunched over the cracked sink, peering into the glass—spattered with flecks of a rusted brown—a beast peered back. 

He blinked, rising slowly, lethargically, and straightened. He watched himself as a wounded beast might eye a threat. Raising a hand, he pushed aside the ragged curtain of golden hair, growing tense at the sight of the hollow socket. His throat bobbed and he let it fall back into place, pulling the black cloth from the side of the sink and tying it around his head, tightening it over the empty flesh. 

His eye was dull as he returned his own lifeless gaze. His hand dragged up his chest and groped at his collar, adjusting the fit. The royal blue of his dress shirt seemed garish and bright—too bright. His fingers pulled at the tie around his neck—a noose. His lips furled up into the hollow facsimile of a smile; it looked like the snarl of a feral beast.

Well, it did not matter. He was not going for pleasantries. His clothing would be painted with blood regardless by the time the moon had had its cycle. 

The hound adjusted the lapels of his long coat and raised his chin. He could play the part of a man, for at least a short time. 

.......................

The venue was, as ever, elegant, ornate; costly. 

She stifled a sigh of irritation as Hubert helped her from the vehicle, eyeing the other couples exiting their own transports around then. Ladies in their long gowns and stylish up-dos, gentlemen in their proper suits. A customary sight at these sorts of occasions. She swept a gloved hand across her face, brushing a silvery strand from her cheek.  
“My lady Edelgard.” Her escort’s voice shivered along her ear as he bent to speak, taking her arm. “He awaits us within.” Hubert guided her down the carpet, his keen eyes flicking back and forth, assessing the environment, seeking potential dangers. 

“I see.” She raised her chin and schooled her expression into one the world had grown familiar with; the Hresvelg heiress, the cold, so-called emperor. She would not allow herself to falter. Not here, of all places. 

She swallowed her disdain and continued on indifferently, knowing well that she and her companion were accruing a number of wide-eyed stares. She did not pause to greet the other guests; she had not come to expand her social circle. 

Hubert led her into a spacious hall, full of chattering attendees—some standing, most seated around the tables, feasting on the luxurious meals provided, others merely sipping at the assortment of beverages offered by the parading servers as they whisked to and fro. The stage was yet empty; the event had not officially begun. It would soon though. 

“Well?” She raised a brow, looking up at the dark-haired man, watching him scan the crowd. He truly was ever attentive. 

“This way, my lady.” Came the response, and once more, he took her arm and led her straight through the arrangement of tables to nearly the center of the room. Surely enough, there he was.

Her brows drew together at the sight of him, but she bit back her irritation and strode forward to take the empty seat, waving Hubert away. “Greetings, uncle.” Edelgard bit out, calmly clasping her hands together atop her lap.

The man said nothing for a moment, his sharp eyes pointed elsewhere—seeming as though he had not heard her. She knew he had. After a moment of such quiet, he finally turned his head and eyed her. “So you bothered to arrive.”

Edelgard could not stop the scoff that tumbled from her lips. “It seems I have. I am more surprised to see you slither from your den. The situation must be dire indeed.” She flagged a nearby server and plucked a glass of fluid from his tray. “What do you want?”

Arundel offered her a sardonic smile and lifted his own glass, tapping it to hers. “Glad to know that you have not changed, my dear. To the point.” His lilac eyes flashed with hostility. “I want to know why so many of our transports never make it to their destinations.” 

She kept her composure beneath his acid gaze, swirling the transparent liquid in her glass. “Do you mean to imply that I have something to do with that?” She mirrored his tone, calm—but a deadly calm. 

The man chuckled lamely and set his drink down without having taken a sip. “It was a simple question.”

“Nothing is ever a simple question.” She refuted, tipping the glass between her lips. Whatever it was, it was cool and refreshing. Good enough. “Is that the only thing you wanted to ask?” Edelgard raised a brow at him, noting that the evening’s hosts had appeared on stage. They had begun to speak—background noise. 

Arundel twined his hands together and copied her posture, not intimidated by her, as she was not intimidated by him. “Funds for an orphanage.” He commented lightly, having heard the presenter’s introduction. “How lovely.”

“Uncle.” She grit out tightly, quite aggravated by the entire situation. 

He purposefully disregarded her and once again turned his head to the side, surveying the stage. “Will you be partaking?” Further ignoring her attempts to direct the conversation, he strayed off course. 

She released a breath and kept her annoyance restrained to a minimum. The woman watched him with narrowed eyes as he joined the applause, clapping leisurely as the first sponsor was announced. “Hubert is seeing to the specifics.” 

“Good, good. A worthy cause.” He added halfheartedly, settling back in his chair. He did enjoy this, did he not? Splitting her nerves to splinters. 

Fine. She could play his game. She eased her tension and turned her attention towards the speaker, listening herself—somewhat, as names were given, as gratitude was imposed. Hers would come up too eventually. There was an astonished declaration of an anonymous donor of a hefty sum. She supposed that was curious. There were few present that would not enjoy being recognized. 

“So?”  
She sighed and closed her eyes, rubbing her temple. “I have nothing to do with it.” She answered tersely. “We have been looking into the issue.”

“Oh, is that so?” He nodded, as though this were a light issue they were chatting about—and not a nefarious, illegal business deal. “And there are no…rats scurrying about your manse of late?”

She bristled at the implication, biting her tongue to keep from snapping. Edelgard pinned him with a frosted glower, her fingers tightening. “I assure you it is quite clean. They would be exterminated without delay.”

A knowing smile curled his lips—though it looked more a sneer. “Ah yes. I do recall your aversion to them. Detestable creatures.” He unfurled his fingers and raised a hand to drum them against the table. “Well, my dear Edelgard, you can offer me no pleasant news then.” An exaggerated disappointment colored his tone and he slid his gaze to hers once again. 

“I assure you that we are…working on it.” She near growled, forcing her countenance to remain impassive, unperturbed. 

The man pushed back suddenly, giving her a rather oily smile as he stood up. “I suppose that is fortunate. Ah well, a fair evening to you, Miss Hresvelg.” The man bent at the waist and turned away. And her eyes followed his movement for as long as he remained within her range of sight. 

When he finally vanished, she released a breath of relief, glad that nothing had happened. 

Nonetheless, she did not yet relinquish her unease. The woman heaved a breath and let her face fall into her palm, merely resting her eyes and mind. Speaking to him was an ordeal of its own. She was simply glad to find a moment of peace—despite the unfortunate location. The speaker droned on and the attendees applauded—white noise. 

That is, until she saw movement from the corner of her eye. She presumed that it was Hubert returning from wherever he had been, and so did not look up, content to remain still.  
But the voice that greeted her was not that of her escort’s. It was like cold velvet swathed over the flat of a knife; it rumbled like distant thunder and her heart felt as though it had been squeezed in an iron grip. 

“It had almost seemed as though you were one of the masterminds.” The foreign voice goaded, a hint of scorn coloring the tone. “But now I see that you are just another of their puppets.” 

A brilliant fury burst from her heart and she curled the hand in her lap into a fist. “I am no one’s puppet.” She seethed, finally snapping her head up, slamming her palm atop the table. Yet it seemed that just as soon as the heat of wrath had scorched her soul, a frigid winter froze it again. She stared at the intruder.

And stared.

And stared.

Her lips fell agape and her fair skin lost its pallor. There was a dead man seated across from her, his leg leisurely crossed atop the other, his hands folded together.  
He stared back. 

And how—oh how could she find the words. What—what had happened? Why was he—here? Was he even real? Was he a figment of her overworked mind? 

But slowly, the corner of his lip dragged upward and a strange smile found a place on his countenance. Not the smile she recalled. 

None of him was as she recalled. 

“El.” He said, bowing his head faintly in greeting. “It has been a while.” No—the hollow tone, the faux amiability—this was not…not real…

The boy she remembered had blue eyes—two of them, and they had danced with laughter. This man, whoever he truly was, had one, and it was dim and lifeless. His hair was long, falling to his shoulders in untamed jagged locks. The boy she remembered had had short hair, cropped to the back of his neck, always kempt. The boy she remembered had smiled and smiled and smiled; this stranger did too, but it was false.

It was strained. It was manic.

“What…are you doing here?” Her voice was a mere whisper, nearly drowned out by the noise around them. She could not bring herself to say the name. His name. 

The man grinned bitterly—there was no humor in his eye as he met her stricken gaze. “Is that all you have to say to me?” 

No—of course not. There was too much. Too much she had to say. Too much she wanted to say. To ask. Too much to feel. 

But he did not wait for a response. The man leaned forward and plucked the steak knife from Arundel’s untouched plate, skimming a finger down its length. “You do not happen to know the name “Cornelia Arnim’, do you, El?” His dull blue eye flicked to hers again—just briefly, before returning to the silverware in his hands. 

She watched his hands warily, her chest beginning to rise and fall a little quicker. “I…have heard of it.” She licked her lips, her fingers inching towards the scarlet purse she had rested atop the table. He kept calling her that. He kept calling her that—it was not his to say—not in that voice, not with that face, not with that unfeeling eye. 

His eye flicked upwards—catching sight of something behind her, and he grinned again—that same strange, unsettling, manic smile. She watched his eye dart back and forth, seemingly assessing something in the distance, and finally, it settled upon her again. “To put simply; I have unfinished business to settle.” 

There was no time but to blink before the man across from her surged upwards. She jolted back and shut her eyes instinctually—but nothing happened. To her.

Instead the table shook violently—a gunshot echoed in her eardrums—and someone screamed. 

Her eyes fluttered open.

There was a dead man on the table. There was a knife in his eye—shoved inside to the hilt. 

Her ears were ringing, but she still heard the second shot; the third. Lamely, sluggishly, as though the air had turned to water around her, she dove down, pulling the purse with her. Chaos.

Chaos had erupted. 

Her hands shook as she pulled open the strap and picked up the small black pistol inside. 

The woman’s eyes flicked back and forth, appraising the scene as her hearing slowly returned. The hall had turned to a stampede of fleeing partygoers. People were tripping over each other in their rush to depart. 

Her fingers curled around the gun and she craned her neck, peering at the monstrous figure above her. 

The man was not looking at her. He was engaged with someone else—and she watched as he delivered a blow to the other man’s face. It crushed in his nose and blood spattered.  
Another thunderous shot—and this time, the blond flinched, but only for a moment. He reeled around and held the unconscious—corpse as though it were a shield as someone rained bullets towards him. But she had seen him take the first bullet. It had hit his shoulder. 

He was. Smiling. Smiling as he held a swaying corpse to his chest, specks of red streaking his hair, his face. Smiling. Under fire. Smiling.

Edelgard could do nothing but stare. Just for a moment. 

But there was someone creeping behind him. Without thinking, she raised her pistol. The man fell dead—and the blond had not even turned to look.

When the gunfire ceased, he threw aside the body, riddled with holes, and pulled the knife free of the first man, tossing and catching it—as though this were nothing but a game.  
She scrambled to her feet in time to watch him throw it—and with his monstrous strength, it met its target. The woman swept her hand across her face, vaguely noting that it felt warm and sticky, brushing aside her white hair—falling free of its buns. There was another one charging towards him. She raised her gun and shot again—and he crumpled.  
How many there were—she did not know. She did not even know whose men they were. Arundel’s? Perhaps. 

Edelgard swallowed thickly and brushed herself off, too unsettled to be anything but calm. 

The hall had emptied but for them—and the last fleeing man. 

Evidently, none were to be left alive. She turned her head, unable to restrain the widening of her eyes when the one-eyed man heaved a chair across the room, and, well, it hit.  
Like a hulking beast, the man lumbered to the fallen figure and took him by the collar—and slammed his face into the pristine floor. No longer. A smear of shining crimson marred its beauty. 

She bit her tongue, her brows furrowing as he did it again. And again. And again. And slowly, she moved towards him, swallowing again. A smear had become a puddle. He lifted the man long enough for her to see—and she felt her stomach churn. 

When he began anew, she hurried forward. “Enough.” Edelgard called, though her voice hardly felt strong enough to impose a command on this—this feral animal. “I said—enough!” Her pace quickened and she tried to block out the sound; the dull sound, the crunching of bones, the splatter of fluid. “Dimitri!”

The corpse fell from his hands and he went still. 

The name tasted like dust on her tongue. 

She paused a short distance from him, hesitant to come any nearer. The pool of scarlet expanded, seeped into his black slacks. His hands were red. “We need to go. Now. Cops will be flooding this place any moment—get up.” Edelgard shoved aside her apprehension and shook his shoulder, unwilling to allow fear to cloud her senses. Because something else already was. 

Slowly, he pushed himself up from his knees—and she stumbled back, craning her neck. He…had he always been this tall? The woman shook her astonishment away and took his hand without hesitation, pulling him roughly. “Move.” She snapped, glancing back in hopes that no one had arrived yet.

Fortune favored them—for this moment at least. 

She moved as quickly as she could in her heels, trying to ignore the feeling of her hands entwined with his. Trying to ignore every single accursed feeling that threatened to overcome her rational mind. It could wait. 

Her hand jittered as she slipped her phone from her pocket and quickly dialed Hubert. He picked up within seconds. “Back entrance. Now.” Her one command. She glanced at the man behind her, paling. He looked ghastly, to put kindly. She had been in this business long enough to have grown accustomed to the deaths of those around her—had put the killing bullets into men’s skulls herself at times. 

But this…

How many had he killed, just by himself in that short span of time? 

And…was he the cause of her turmoil? 

It could wait. His breathing was labored. His blue shirt was visibly darkening. 

They burst free of the building into the cool night air—into the alley behind. There was a vehicle running, waiting for her. A dark form surged towards her, but she shook her head. “No, help me get him inside.” 

She felt Hubert pause, as though he wanted to question the order. Dimitri leaned against her, and she felt that she might fall under his weight. 

“Hubert.” The woman growled, releasing the man’s hand and instead steadying him. 

“My lady…I do not believe that this is wise.” His voice was cool, composed. 

Wisdom had no play in this matter. If he would not assist, then so be it. She pushed him aside and kept walking. 

At least the man had the lucidity to slide inside the vehicle himself, easing her the burden of shoving him in—an impossible task. He was bigger, heavier than her. Edelgard clambered in after him, glad that Hubert had at least had stopped questioning her and returned to the driver’s seat. 

“Where shall we take…him?” She saw his eyes in the mirror and scowled, glancing at the man bleeding all over their luxurious model. 

“A hotel—any hotel. A fucking motel! I do not care—but get there quickly.” Edelgard shifted in her seat and pried the man’s coat off his wounded shoulder. “Put pressure on it you fool—or you will bleed out.” The stain had grown darker, wider.

But he merely chuckled, a dark, unsettling sound. “Good.” No motion was made to do as she had bid him. He certainly had grown rebellious over the years, she thought darkly as she cursed, moving closer to press her own hand against his wound. 

“Hubert—whatever existing security footage there is. Get rid of it.” Her nerves were strung tight—and the blue eye boring into her gave her no comfort. The man behind the wheel, at least, did as she asked—calling someone on his phone to see the task carried through. Her evening was not supposed to have gone so awry. 

Her dead lover was not supposed to have come back to life. He was not supposed to have been the one destroying her uncle’s organizations convoys. He was supposed to have been dead. He had been publicly pronounced so five years ago—she had mourned him. And she had let him go.

Well, not really. 

And that grew ever clearer with every passing moment. 

“As soon as we park, get us a key— and then go get bandages. Alcohol. We need to get the bullet out.” Giving orders came easier than thinking, feeling. She was ready to do neither. “Hubert?” She knew it was cruel to snap at him so, but at the moment, she had not the patience to speak softer.

“Yes. As you wish.” The man glanced back once more—his gaze straying to the silent blond beside her, and his lips twisted with disdain. 

But there were no more orders to give. She bit her lip and closed her eyes, heaving a breath. Her hair slid against her skin, unbound now, and draping her shoulders. A warm wetness seeped into her palm and she felt the urge to pull her hand away. 

Thoughts began to creep into her skull. Why? Why had she done this? Why was she doing this? How had everything gone so terribly awry? Every action, decision had its consequence; this one had too many to name. 

“Hubert, who were they?” To escape the swell of questions pounding her consciousness, she looked up and met the driver’s eyes. 

They narrowed and she heard him make a sound of displeasure. “I think it should be rather apparent. It seems he does not trust us as much as he would have us believe. A countermeasure, if you will.” As she had deduced—they had been Arundel’s lackeys. And they had been present to shoot her down if she had said but one word out of turn.  
Well it was good to know that neither trusted the other. And still she bristled. Was she really a gnat caught in the sprawling spider’s web? Was she so powerless against him and his blasted organization? “No word of this or our involvement will reach his ears.” They had left before the shooting had begun. She had departed right after Arundel had—had not lingered behind—had not felled a few of his men herself. “And we do not know the perpetrator.” She added, despite hosting the very man in her private vehicle. 

Hubert scoffed, seeming dubious at the proposition she offered. “He is not so stupid a man as you would hope, my lady.” 

“And we are still cleverer than he would care to think.” Edelgard quipped back, glancing at Dimitri. He had grown quite still—and for a moment, with a tightening of her heart—she feared that he may have passed. But no, his chest still rose and fell. His eye was open and pinned outside the window. He was listening. “Have…” She took a breath, shutting her eyes and steeling herself. “Have we tried to contact Claude?”

And only then did the man beside her stir. His head turned as by clockwork, his eye swiveling in the socket to peer at her. He said nothing.

Hubert too remained quiet for a moment, and then gave a curt shake of the head. “Not yet. Shall I attempt to do so?”

The woman nodded, wondering how that would go. She had not spoken to him for quite some time—but if anyone had the mind to outwit her former ally-turning-enemy, it was the mastermind himself. She did not know much at all of what the man had been doing the past few years—but apparently he was neck deep in this shit as well, though dealing with his own issues. But as far as she could tell, they had the same enemy now. 

As for the man beside her…

He had, from as much as she had been able to parse out, been a loose cannon the past few years. Whether or not he had been truly working alone, she did not know—it certainly seemed that way…but how could one man, presumed dead by the world—and her, have been able to wreck so much havoc on his own? 

And what did he make of all this? If his enemies were those she had been, to put loosely, working with—did that make her one of his targets? 

Though…from what she had seen thus far…

If he had wanted her dead, her corpse may have already been cooling alongside the others. She shuddered to think of it. She had never imagined that she might see him again, but even if she had dreamed of it, it would not have happened this way. 

“You are shivering.” His voice was still so foreign to her. So utterly cold, void of feeling, of life. “Are you afraid?” Of me. The words went unsaid, but she heard them regardless.  
Edelgard did not look at him, peering outside instead, watching as Hubert finally turned into a dingy parking lot outside a shabby, rustic motel. “I do not yet know whether you will snap my neck.” She answered, catching Hubert’s dark look. The man turned off the vehicle, but made no motion to exit. Understandably, he was concerned about leaving in the company of what he undoubtedly presumed was a deranged madman prone to excessive violent tendencies. Not that he had ever truly liked Dimitri. Oh, he liked him less now certainly.

“Go.” She furrowed her brows at him, pressing harder against the man’s shoulder, hearing a slight groan rumble in his throat. 

Hubert’s eyes slid to the wounded man in the mirror. “If I should find one hair on her head out of place, I will personally see that you are afforded the most agonizing death that man’s machine can provide.”

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, but the wounded man merely laughed—a cruel sound, rough and uncaring. Dimitri had never truly been afraid of Hubert—and surely less so now. She was not even sure that the promise meant anything to him. If he did not fear death, then there was nothing left for him to fear. 

“Your butler has not changed.” He spoke once Hubert had finally departed. 

But we have. She thought, holding her tongue, her heart finally beginning to settle. 

A silence descended over them; a strained silence, tense, heavy. It was nothing like before when they could sit together in peace. And of course, she had still not brought up the fact that he—

“You were supposed to be dead.” She grit out, swallowing thickly, not looking at him. “Everyone said you—you had died.”

The man did not respond. His dull gaze was still focused elsewhere, and it frightened her more than she had ever thought it could. The lack of warmth in his eyes. Dimitri was someone that she had thought could never lose his light. 

“But…there was no funeral.” Edelgard added, remembering how desperately she had awaited the invitation. Surely—his friends, one of those close to him would remember her, how close they had been. Or maybe she had lost the privilege when she chose to part ways with him. But no. No news arrived of his burial, and slowly, after the months crept by, the thought faded and she was forced to accept that she and he would never meet again.

Dimitri chuckled again—and it seemed to grate against her heart. “As you can see, the corpse is still walking.” 

“The accident—,” The woman felt her brows furrow as she scanned his face—it twisted with scorn and revulsion.

“The only accident was their failure to kill me immediately.” 

She had opened her mouth to speak, her heart gripped with a cold hand. Before she could, the door opened and Hubert beckoned her out. Edelgard swallowed her words and drew her hand away, wiping it on her clothing as she slid out of the car.

The night air was inviting—it had been stifling within. 

She turned to watch the wounded man stumble out; Hubert made no attempt to help him. Instead, the dark-haired turned to look at her. “Shall I dispose of the owner?” He raised his chin and adjusted his glove—a small blade peeking out of his sleeve. 

She understood how imperative it was to remove any trace of their having been present here, but it seemed that the disappearance of a seemingly uninvolved civilian would simply turn more heads. “No. They have not seen us—only you, and they are not likely to recognize you. Just make sure there are no cameras in the room.” 

“As you desire.” He bowed his head and led the way, stalking to the door of the room he had hired. 

Dimitri was leaning against the sleek black vehicle, his head raised, his attention caught by the night sky. It was a starless night, slightly clouded over—but the moon shone through the thin mist, a half-moon. 

She only noticed then how, well—nice, his clothing had been before the bloodbath. A long black coat with a thickly furred collar, a sleek royal blue dress-shirt, even a tie. All of it was spattered with dark stains now though; a pity. Still, it was incredible that he had even deigned to dress the part, despite his apparent intention having been to assassinate someone. 

No—wrong word, she quickly amended. That was too clean. His work was most certainly anything but. 

“All clear.” Her companion’s chilling voice drifted through the night, and a moment following, she saw him sweep out of the growing darkness. “My lady—if he so much as—,”  
She held a hand to silence him as she straightened. “I know. Now go, procure the things I asked of you. Ah—and some aspirin would be wonderful.” The woman tossed her unkempt hair and raised a brow, knowing that he would submit to her request in a moment. And so he did. Hubert nodded slowly, and with yet another scathing glower at the man—taller even than him, he returned to the car and started the engine.

Had Dimitri not moved, she was certain that Hubert would have driven off regardless. And if the man had been mistakenly hit—her friend would simply have shrugged and called it an ‘unfortunate mishap’. 

With a sigh, she turned from the departing vehicle and dragged herself towards the room—at the very end of the line of doors, not even pausing to check whether the man was following her. She had not anticipated the evening to be so exhausting. Her head ached with dull, pounding throbs. 

Even before she had pushed open the door, she was sliding her jacket off her torso—and without a moment of hesitation, tossed the scarlet garment at the chair in the corner. She allowed herself only a brief moment to inspect her new surroundings. A rather tight space—a single double bed took up most of it. A window towards the back, the blinds drawn. The lights were weak, but enough to see by. There was another door around the back, presumably the bathroom. 

It was certainly not the five-star establishments that she tended to frequent when staying somewhere other than her family home, but…it was clean enough. She simply had no desire to know what had taken place here before. 

The door clicked shut behind her and she spared a glance at the man that lumbered in, looking as though he was ready to keel over. 

“Take off your coat and shirt and get into the bathroom.” She bid him tersely, rolling up the sleeves of her own shirt. The man eyed her lazily, rather—lethargically and she narrowed her eyes. “We do not want to get your blood all over this room.” That was the best way to attribute their visit as something other than an innocent one.

She peeled off her stained gloves, carefully rolling them together and tossing them atop her jacket. Fortunately, he had begun to do as she asked, achingly prying off the heavy coat—and she saw the pain dart through his eye, his jaw tighten with the discomfort. 

Without a word, she strode towards him and slapped his hands away, aiding him with the task. “Cornelia Arnim.” She repeated the name that he had given her, rolling it around her mouth. “I vaguely know her. My uncle’s acquaintance.” Speaking of this was better than not speaking at all, better than allowing the thoughts to cloud her head, better than allowing her feelings to surface. 

His head turned to the side so that he could look at her—and she was reminded that he had only one eye. She folded the coat so that the blood stains were facing inward and laid it on the bed, turning to see to the shirt. Her fingers deftly found each button, plucking them from their places. 

“She was supposed to have been there.” Came the rumbling voice, so much gruffer than she had ever imagined he was capable of.

Edelgard shook her head, keeping her eyes lowered, focused on her task. “I cannot claim to know anything of her whereabouts. I have only seen her a few times. My uncle—Arundel is the only one I correspond with…though infrequently.” She corrected, no longer wishing to affiliate herself so familiarly with the man. 

He stood still, just barely helping her pull off the thoroughly ruined shirt—and she saw the white cloth beneath—the entire right side was soaked with a dark, wet red.  
“Fuck.” She raised a hand and pressed it to her forehead, wondering how he was still standing. She licked her lips and shook her head, unwilling to be shaken. The woman cleared her throat and tugged at the edge of the shirt briefly, before thinking better of it. Cutting it off would be better. “You were there to kill her?” 

A distracted hum was all the answer she received as she turned away and searched the room for something sharp. It was Hubert that carried the knife; her pistol would hardly be any help. But before she could bemoan the lack of a pair of scissors, the sound of cloth ripping met her ears and she whirled around.

She blinked, watching him tear the shirt apart himself—with the ease of tearing a slip of paper. The wry comment faltered on her tongue as he tossed aside the scrap of stained cloth. 

His skin…

Even beneath the scarlet curtain that painted it, she could make out gnarled scars, ugly, twisted—some spanning the entirety of his chest. And when he turned, she saw that even more littered the flesh of his back. 

Her throat went dry and a vicious surge of…what, sympathy, guilt, torrented through her heart. The memory of the smiling boy shattered further. 

She choked down those unwanted feelings and followed him into the bathroom, stopping at the threshold. 

Edelgard watched him lean heavily against the sink, hunching over it, his hands gripping the sides as though anchoring him in place. There was a manic sort of glee in his eyes as he peered at his reflection—as though the pain was an ecstasy. She eyed the hole in his shoulder, leaking streams of blood ceaselessly. 

“Was this my fault?” 

She heard her own voice, but did not register having spoken. Had it truly been her voice? So meek, quiet—frightened. 

His eye snapped to her, she saw it in the mirror. “Do not flatter yourself.” His voice was flat, toneless. And he turned his gaze back—his hand rising to grip his shoulder. He pressed his thumb into the wound and she winced, turning her eyes away. She heard him hiss. 

“Hubert will be back soon.” She said, to herself, or to him—it did not matter. 

A moment passed and she mustered the courage. “Dimitri.” His name. It was his name. It was him, regardless of what she wanted to believe. “Were you going to kill me?”  
Her words seemed to hang in the air—tangible.

Her heart pattered against her ribs. Loud. Too loud. The man said nothing. 

Nor was he given the chance to. 

She heard the door outside open and glanced over her shoulder to watch Hubert slip inside. Without a word, the man stalked past her and, not without an acerbic look, place a bottle of liquor on the shelf above the sink and a roll of bandages alongside it. 

“What about the knife?” She raised a brow at him, almost slightly amused at the huff of indignation that puffed from his nose. Wordlessly, he slipped the concealed dagger from his sleeve and offered it to her. She blinked, staring at him. Did he expect her to do this? He had always been better at dissecting things than she—not to mention unperturbed by the sight of blood. 

“Give it to me.” The man behind her growled, and she turned her head, watching as he uncorked the bottle and splashed it over his wound, his jaw tensing. Hubert shrugged and did as asked, stepping away with a rather smug smile. 

“No—Dimitri—,” She gripped his arm before he could draw the knife nearer. “You cannot—,”

A bleak chuckle, more like a choke, tumbled from his throat and he lifted the bottle to his lips, taking a swig. The man pulled free of her grip and pinned her with a dead gaze. “You think I have not done this before?” 

That silenced her, and she lowered her arm, swallowing thickly. The woman gave him a brief nod, stepping away. 

Yet, as he began to dig the little blade into his own flesh, gritting his teeth to contain the pained grunts and groans, her stomach churned. Blood gushed from the wound and she clamped her lips together. It spattered the white ceramic—flecks dripping to the floor. 

Edelgard watched as though entranced. There was something about the grotesque scene that kept her rooted in place. Perhaps it was the spark of life that flickered through his eye, perhaps the sound of his ragged breaths; the way his muscles tensed and relaxed, rippling under his skin—the way his skin pulled taut over his bicep as he strained, fighting his own body’s instinct to keep from inflicting pain. 

And there was so much of it—blood—pouring, squirting with every twist of the knife. 

What was it that prompted her to stay and watch her former lover mangle his own flesh. Even as nausea bubbled in her stomach and a foul taste coated her tongue.  
“My lady, you are growing pale. I would recommend that you step away and get some air.” Hubert’s voice drew her away from the repulsive sight and she swayed, her eyes flicking to him. Her mouth felt dry. 

She mumbled some sort of incoherent reply and moved away from the bathroom, vaguely noting that Hubert had shut the door after her. The man moved fluidly to the window and pushed away the blinds, cracking it open. A flood of chilled air swept into the room and she shuddered, glancing down at herself. Her hands were stained—the blood had probably soaked through her gloves. 

The woman cleared her throat and closed her eyes, regaining her composure. “Hubert, take all my contaminated clothing and dispose of it. Take his shirt too. And find something else for him to wear. Bring it tomorrow morning—,” She said, just as a harrowing roar echoed, slightly muffled, through the closed door. It had sounded like the howl of a wounded beast. She blinked, having almost forgotten what she had been saying. “I am staying the night.”

He protested without hesitation, his eyes flashing. “I will not allow you to stay with that—delusional, volatile—creature.” Hubert hissed, lowering his voice as he realized that the man might in fact have heard him. “If he is the one truly responsible for the destroyed transports—if he is after the organization, then you very well may be his next target.” The man urged her in a frantic whisper, his eyes narrowed.

“If he had wanted me dead; I would already be rotting with the rest of his victims.” She snapped in return, just as the bathroom door slammed open. They both turned their heads, watching the man lean heavily against the doorway, heaving labored breaths. The black ribbon that had been tied around his face had fallen away. 

The man lamely raised his hand—Hubert’s knife dangling between his fingers, the silver blade coated with a glistening scarlet sheen. She saw the hollow socket behind the locks of his dampened hair. A trickle of blood ran down his chest, dripping into the waistband of his trousers. 

She was at a loss for words momentarily, stunned by his appearance. Hubert seemed equally as surprised, but managed his expression better, and gathered himself more quickly. He eyed the bloody blade and scoffed. “Would you not even offer me the courtesy of cleaning it?” 

She might have been frightened for her friend’s life at the murderous glint that flickered through the man’s eyes. 

Both of them remained still as the wounded man lurched forward, lumbering towards them, and she felt Hubert grow tense beside her. But Dimitri said nothing, simply pressed the dagger against his chest, his lips curling into a sneer. 

“Your suit is dirty.” 

And he shoved back—just slightly, but Hubert stumbled back, his hand flying to the knife before it could fall. A cruel chuckle dripped from his lips—and there was a fierce resentment in her friend’s eyes. “A dead man should know when to stop walking.” His voice was dark, venomous, filled with a restrained anger.

Edelgard hurriedly planted herself between her companion and the wounded man before either could lunge at the other. He seemed less likely to kill her now—but Hubert’s life seemed to be suspended only by the taut string of Dimitri’s patience. Taunting him would solve nothing. 

“Hubert; there is nothing to debate. Leave before it is your head he decides that he wants next.” She glanced at the stain on his dark suit—not so apparent, but still visible. “Tomorrow. Come back tomorrow.” It was needless to say he was to tell no one where she had gone, or what had happened. 

His hesitation to leave her here with the wounded man was more than evident, and yet his sense of loyalty nagged at him to do as she had commanded. She saw the battle playing out in his eyes, until at last, he heaved a sigh and shut his eyes. “Fine.” He grit out, and this time he said nothing as he made his exit. It was obvious enough that his threats did nothing to unnerve the man. 

Edelgard watched him stiffly collect the clothes, his lips curling into a scowl as he picked up Dimitri’s bloody shirt. 

When her companion finally departed, she heaved a breath of relief. Undoubtedly, when Hubert had been present, the air had felt electric—like a bolt of lightning was merely waiting to crash down and burn through them all. At least she was somewhat confident that the man would not assault her indiscriminately. 

Though, he had never answered her question. 

The woman pressed her hands to her face, feeling fatigued—physically, emotionally. She felt her hair shiver along her back and realized that she was probably quite filthy herself. She dragged her palms down and achingly glanced about the room. It was fortunately quite untouched. Ah, and the man had left her a small bottle of the pain relievers she had asked for. 

She picked them up gratefully as she wandered to the door—shut again. She heard the sound of running water and paused, wondering how much of his privacy she could invade before he deemed it an intrusion. She could not simply assume that their past intimacy would immediately be rekindled, not after this. 

Her hand remained poised to knock for a few moments, but the woman sighed and ultimately decided that whatever happened, happened. Without announcing her presence, she pushed open the door, her eyes immediately drawn to the sink. It looked about as horrific as she had expected. Even the tiles around it were dappled with spots of drying blood. The mirror above the sink was flecked with the same—and there was a little metal cylinder stuck in the drain. 

Her brows drew together and she turned her head, noting the pool of black fabric on the floor, a pair of shoes haphazardly kicked off. The running water was that of the shower, and she was slightly miffed that he had taken it first—despite the one to have needed its utility more. 

She raised her eyes to view the figure at last. Rivulets of a diluted scarlet were sucked into the drain beneath his feet; his blood mixing with the water. Her gaze traveled up his form, barely heeding the nakedness. She had seen him before, after all. But not like this. Not littered with scars, so many slashes facing every which way—so many, she wondered how on earth he had lived so long. 

There was a sudden ache between her legs and she cursed herself, astonished. What…what was wrong with her? To grow excited by the sight of him so battered? Had she longed for him so badly? Or was she simply starved for physical affection—for intimacy. Or was she simply a sick voyeur, some kind of sadist. Perhaps she was. After all, sleepless nights spent with her own fingers between her legs did little to satisfy that craving. 

His back was turned to her and her eyes followed the curve of his spine, lingering on every jagged gash that marred his skin. 

Even when he slammed the handle and shut off the water flow, slowly turning to face her, she did not startle. She remained in place, silent, watchful. He seemed hardly perturbed by her presence, nor modest as he had sometimes been before. The man stood before her, impassive, dripping—his sopping hair plastered to his face. 

Wordlessly he raised his hand and smoothed the soaked strands away from it, and she saw his visage clearly for the first time that night. She had caught brief glimpses afore, but now she saw it without obstacle; the hollow socket where a blue eye had once been. His eyelid, another slash scarring through the middle, sagged into the empty groove.  
Her eyes trailed down his torso, following the blond curls below his navel, resting on the flaccid member hanging from his groin. And she allowed her gaze to linger briefly. 

“Eyed your fill of me?” The man growled, his eye narrowing as she raised her gaze to meet it. 

She did not give her reply, instead merely crossed her arms and lifted her chin, unwilling to be intimidated by his glower. “Are you finished?” The woman gestured to the shower. She had no other clothes, but there were a few fresh towels hanging from hooks. 

The man pulled one free and loosely wrapped it around his waist, bending to swiftly pull his trousers from the ground. Without a word, he brushed past her and exited the room. Edelgard waited for a moment before turning to close the door, her fingers halting before she turned the lock. 

She bit her lip, deliberating briefly—and decided to leave it open. 

The woman achingly began to strip, pulling off her scarlet blouse, glancing at herself in the mirror. And she paused, the garment half off, assessing her appearance. She looked worse than she had thought. Her hands were coated in dried blood, and the same stuff had dried on her face. Her hair hung in silver curtains around her, slightly disheveled. Some of her lipstick had smeared. 

She shook her head and turned away, reaching over to pull the shower handle. As the water burst out of the pipes again, she finished pulling off her clothes, leaving them in a pile, just as he had done. She could not bring herself to care about folding them, not after the evening she had had. 

Edelgard stepped under the warm flow and sighed, closing her eyes. It was most certainly not as spacious as the one at home; and truthfully, she would have preferred a relaxing bath and a glass of wine. Regardless, she had chosen to remain here, Sothis knew why. 

She scrubbed at her scalp and rubbed her hands together to scrape off the blood, frowning at how difficult it was to wash out. 

Even when she stepped out, mostly clean—her hands still smelled of iron. 

The woman sighed and wrung out her hair, reaching for a towel. She could not recall whether or not she had reminded Hubert to bring her new attire as well. As intuitive as he was, he would probably do so on his own regardless. She pulled the starchy cloth around her body and sighed once more, not for the first time wishing that she had gone home; she could have been lounging in a comfortable arm chair, sipping at a cup of specially blended tea, and wearing a soft, silken robe. 

Alas, she had stayed. 

And instead of her plush, spacious bed, she would share the motel-quality mattress with someone that she had not yet deciphered—whether or not he truly meant to harm her or not. For all she knew, he could simply be waiting. For what? Well, how could she know?

The woman paused on her way out to take the bottle of liquor—still fairly full. The bandages though, were gone. She curled her fingers around the top of the towel and padded into the bedroom, her attention drawn to the man perched on the edge of the bed—curling a generous roll of white cloth around his shoulder. 

There was already a hint of a dull red seeping through the fabric. It did not look particularly comfortable, doing that on his own—but then, he had also dug out a bullet by himself. So she resisted the urge to offer assistance and crept around to the other side, her eyes keen on his form. 

The woman hefted herself up and curled her legs beneath herself, still holding on to the towel. She watched him struggle, her gaze wandering his figure again—and she found that he had tugged on his trousers. “You and I have many things to discuss.”

He barely grunted in acknowledgement. 

Edelgard took a breath and inched closer, pushing herself to her knees. “Dimitri.” As she had expected, the word had garnered his attention, and his motion ceased.  
“What is there to discuss.” The man’s voice was dull as he spoke and his eye flicked upward. His expression remained unchanged; impersonal, distant. 

She barked a bitter laugh and shook her head. “Everything. For one—how about the elephant in the room.” The matter she had been trying to disregard since the moment of her realization. “You are the one assaulting their transports, and you are the one responsible for the many, many reported deaths.” 

“You already know. What more should I say?” He asked drily, extending the roll and tearing through the cloth with his teeth. He tossed the remainder aside and began to knot the loose end. 

“That means that you must know that I had been working in collaboration with them.” Less in equal partnership, she had begun to realize recently, but it irked her to believe that she was a mere pawn. Edelgard studied his countenance, searching for any hint of that feral madness that had surged through his eye before—at the venue. “Does that mean that you…you intend to kill me too?” 

He said nothing, and she feared that he might simply ignore her query, as he had before. But after a moment of that strained silence, the man lowered his head. “I…was going to.”  
It was not the answer she had been hoping to hear, and still better than the answer she was half-expecting. “Meaning that you have changed your mind.” She concluded, licking her lips, rather apprehensive now.

Dimitri heaved a breath and bent over, catching his face in his hands. He remained that way for what seemed to be a few minutes, until at last he slowly unfurled, straightening. He still did not look at her. “Are you cutting ties with them?” His tone was indecipherable. 

“It is not that simple.” She turned her head away, her lips turning down. “There are far too many factors to consider. I am in a precarious position—,”

“You have too much to lose.” He scoffed, scorn tinting his voice. “You see; I have already lost everything.” 

Hollow. Lifeless. Joyless. Tired. 

The feelings that she had been trying to keep at bay since first laying eyes upon him suddenly surged against the wall she had built, battering like a ram. There was an unfamiliar sting in her eyes and she bit her tongue, stifling a strange swelling cry. “What about me?” She heard herself ask, her own voice foreign to her. 

The man slowly turned his head, and the dark circles beneath his eyes seemed only more pronounced as he spoke. “I lost you years ago.”

What if you could have me again. 

The words remained locked in her heart. She swallowed thickly and tried to rein in her surging emotions. 

The woman crept closer and extended her hand, gingerly brushing a lock of drying hair from his face—and carefully cupped his jaw, approaching him as one might approach a frightened, wounded animal. 

She touched her lips to his. A gentle peck. Cautious. His gaze remained frigid, unfeeling, trained on her own eyes. She tried again, firmer, her eyes flashing with defiance.  
Resist. Respond. Do something. Anything. Push me away. Pull me closer. 

Her thoughts ran amuck as she withdrew, just slightly. Her brows furrowed and she glared at him, at his lack of reaction, expression. Why did he say nothing? 

She ran her tongue over her lip—and his eye flicked to the motion. Edelgard leaned in once more, and kissed him. She curled her arms around his neck—uncaring that the towel slid down her figure. She kissed him and kissed him—and he did nothing. Until she took his lip between her teeth and bit down until blood burst into her mouth.  
The tang of iron spread across her tongue. And yet, he tasted like ash.

Was it pain that spurred him to life? She recalled how he had thumbed his wound—pressing into it. 

An inhuman sound choked down her throat as he met her mouth. His hands slid up her sides—one tangled in her hair. And pulled.  
Red painted her lips as she winced, attempting to match his ferocity with her own. 

She remembered how pliant he had been before, how eager to please and obey, how he would simply crumble under the slightest touch, his eyes bright with awe and tenderness. No such warmth greeted her. The one azure orb gleamed with a cold fire, and his touch was anything but gentle. He was unbending tempered steel, obstinate and unwilling to bow to her whims. 

Just as she tried to dominate, he did the same—and, she realized, as he pushed her down, that even back then, had Dimitri tried to overwhelm her, he could have easily done so. Now, his strength was ever more apparent. 

She could do nothing as he pressed her wrists to the bed and climbed atop her like some hulking beast. She could do nothing, but it was not in her to meekly concede, so she fought him. She writhed and pulled at his iron grip in hopes of escaping, desiring to pull his golden hair. She did not want to give him free rein—she wanted to claw it back to herself.

The cramped space was swiftly filled by the sound of quiet growls, grunts; feral. 

The woman felt small beneath his massive frame, frail—and she wondered how she had ever taken him before. How had he not broken her before? 

Edelgard hissed as he bit at her throat, shifting on her back as he nudged apart her thighs. “Let,” The woman released an irritable huff as he took her collarbone between his teeth, sparing her no mercy. “Me go.” She pulled at his grip, still battling his strength. 

His eye flicked upward to meet her own, and after a moment, a devilish smile curved his lips. “Are you frustrated, El?” He goaded cruelly, pressing her arms together and taking both wrists in one hand. “Does it pain you being so helpless?” A calloused hand skimmed her chest.

She tossed her head and narrowed her eyes, unimpressed. “Do you see me cowering, Dimitri? Release me; I will add a few scars to your collection.” If he liked pain so much, she could certainly deliver. “Either that or hurry up and get it over with.” She could not rub her legs together, his knee was flush between them. She raised a brow and allowed a smirk to curl her lips as she wiggled down and pressed herself to him. 

It was not so much as to relieve her own growing arousal as to discern his reaction, she justified as she began to move. She rolled her hips and raised her chin, keeping his gaze without a hint of shame, nor mortification. She was no longer the innocent girl, he was no longer the innocent boy; they had long since cast aside their virtues and donned the mantle of filthiness. 

If he found the action vile, he could throw her aside. Until he did—whichever, fucked her or pulled away, she would seek release against him, heedless of whether she soiled his trousers.

“All these years and you have still not discovered patience.” The man barked a cold laugh and moved away, just out of her reach—and she growled in frustration. “How base you have become, rutting away like a common bitch.”

Edelgard surged upward, surprising him by the sudden violence of her motions. Having caught him off guard, she had freed her hands and curled her fingers in his hair, pulling until a sharp breath hissed from his lips. “Take that word back.” She snarled, tugging painfully—but he groaned and smiled. “You are the animal here.”

“Yes,” He breathed, drawing close enough to share breath, in almost intimate a manner. “I am. I am a foul, warped beast. I have no cause in this cursed afterlife but to seek vengeance for those that scream in my skull.” His voice grew hoarse, grew louder, and she almost feared, as his hands curled around her neck, that he would indeed snap it then. He did not. Instead, in a desperate, manic whine, he cried. “So why are you still here?”

She went still, her breath hitching as she peered into his eye. He was lost. Lost. Afraid. He was alone. He had lost everything. Beneath the façade of wild bloodlust there was a frightened boy, imprisoned in a cage of fear, cruelty. The world had not been kind to him. She had not been kind to him. 

Why…was she still there? Why, why, why. Well, for the very same reason, she supposed, that she had wept bitterly upon the announcement of his untimely passing. For the same reason she had decided to join with him in a strange romance all those years ago. For the same reason her heart simply refused to settle, the emotions she had tried to keep at bay kept swelling back to the surface.

It was quite simple, really—though long ago, it had seemed the most complicated concept in the world. 

Edelgard blinked away a veil of tears and swallowed thickly, releasing her grip on his lengthened locks. Her hands slid to his broad shoulders and slowly, she curled her arms around his neck. “You fool.” She spat, wishing that he had not forced her to say it. Wishing that she did not have to admit it—to herself. That even after all this time— “I love you.”  
Three little words. Three cursed words. 

He remained still, unmoving like stone. His eye did not turn from her gaze, his expression remained tight, agonized. 

And slowly, the pressure around her neck grew. 

Her eyes grew wider and she dug her nails into the skin of his shoulders as the breath strained to scrape past her throat. It grew and grew and her heart began to beat frantically against her chest. She choked, her eyes bulging from their sockets, a brazen scarlet coloring the tint of her skin. 

No—no—not like this. He would not. Could not.

Please.

The pressure released and she gasped, heaving a breath she had feared she would not take again. Her head felt light and her throat ached—and a pair of lips descended upon her own, stealing the air from her lungs before she could fill them. 

He bore down on her, forcing her to the bed, devouring her. There seemed less human in him than animal as he panted and bit at her skin, his hands scouring her sides, rough against her soft, unmarred skin. 

A surge of excitement, of exhilaration jolted beneath her skin—an illicit thrill of the danger. 

He descended down her body and peered at her from between her legs. A shudder wove down her spine and she curled her fingers in his hair. She keened and her head fell back. Her heart leapt with every lap of his tongue, and she lilted his name, clawing at his scalp. 

“Did he do this for you?” A wintry voice drifted into her ears and she raised her head, her brows furrowing. A finger slid down the crevice teasingly. “Does that loyal hound of yours get on all fours for you?” 

It dawned of whom he had spoken such crass accusations and a shudder of revulsion heaved down her spine. “Silence.” Edelgard hissed, curling her legs around his head and locking him in place. “That forked tongue of yours has a better use.” 

He laughed against her, that same frigid, toneless laugh. And yet she felt the warmth return, teasing—gloriously teasing. He laved her with his cruel affection, with lips and tongue and teeth, until she shuddered her climax against his mouth.

Her legs unfurled and the man climbed back up, dragging his chest up her body deliberately. The woman’s eyes flicked to him, her lips parted as she sucked in breath after breath. There was a delightful warmth between her thighs. She wanted it filled. By him. None other.

She curled her fingers in his hair and pulled him down to meet her. The taste of her lingered on his tongue, but she disregarded it. The woman took his lip between her teeth and pulled, opening her eyes to watch him. His hands were working at the buckles of his trousers.

His hands skimmed her sides, settling over her waist, and he kicked off his pants.

There was no barrier between them, and she could hardly bring herself to heed the lack of protection—not now. Not now.

He slid in with ease, and she groaned. She felt him lift a leg, hook it over his hip, felt a calloused hand palm her breast. 

Was this…real? It seemed to be so. Or perhaps it was simply a dream. It was a dream—because Dimitri was dead. Her Dimitri had died years ago—he had died and left her alone, and she had wept and wept and wept. Or—it had been her to leave him alone first.

She had left him alone, and he had died. And he had come back from the grave a scarred, bitter man. 

There was no sound in the room save for their mingled breathing, the gentle creaking of the old mattress springs beneath them. 

Her hands traveled his chiseled chest, tracing the scars that branched out against his pale skin. The white cloth was dappled through with red. 

Sweat slicked her skin and his. She met every one of his rolling motions, sighing, and raised a hand to his face. The woman pushed aside the golden strands, tucking them behind his ear, and ran her thumb across his empty socket. 

And he looked at her. There was something in his gaze that she had not seen—not for years. Like recognition. She watched as water gathered in his eye, trickling down his cheek. Something warm dripped onto her chest. And the man gasped her name. “El…?” 

He sounded broken—oh so broken.

“El?” He said again, almost fearfully hopeful—and perhaps he had thought for a moment the same that she had; this was a dream. It was an illusion. 

“Yes—,” She breathed, reaching up to swipe aside the rolling tears, heaving a sigh as he pushed into her over and over and over. “Yes, Dimitri.” His name fit him then—it belonged to him again, as he lowered his head and kissed her like a starving man. He released her leg and cupped her cheeks with both hands, as though he wanted to take all of her. 

Tell me. She wanted to say. Tell me that you love me too.

The words echoed in her heart, clamped behind her teeth. They felt like poison.

His tears mingled with her own—though she had not realized that she had begun to cry as well. He heaved into her once, twice more, and she felt him spend himself within her. It was a warmth that spread throughout her, and she relished it. His name shivered from her lips and she embraced him, pressing herself to him, as close as she could. 

She felt him slip away, and her eyes fluttered open, a plea quivering on the tip of her tongue. Stay. 

But he did not leave—he lumbered across the room to flick off the lights, and within moments, his weight returned to the bed. The woman climbed under the covers and groped the darkness for him. 

She pulled herself to his side and nestled her head between his neck and shoulder, curling herself around him. For this blissful moment, it seemed that everything would be fine. The worries plaguing her mind faded to dull whispers. 

His arm swept across her back; the weight of his hand settled on her hip. She felt his breath puff across her face as he sighed. 

Just this once. Just this once she wanted to be hopeful, to believe. And to cling to this moment forever. 

.................................

There was no light save for the faint ray of silver peering through the window. 

It was a cold and empty light—that was what he had begun to believe after so many nights spent gazing into its face, watching it wax and wane. It was a lonely light, a poor comfort and poorer companion. 

He sat in the darkness, glowering at that taunting glow, tense, fraught with unease. 

He had not accomplished what he had set out to do. Not at all. His plans had gone awry the moment he had caught sight of that distinguishable white hair—somewhere within him there was a man, and that man was still weak. A slave to the past, chained to sentiment and accursed emotion.

He pressed his hands together to keep them from shaking, wishing that he had brought a pack and a lighter with him. He had not been anticipating to have been gone so long.  
The man heaved a sigh and turned his head. There was a form lying still beside his, curled together, unperturbed by his waking. The lunar glow painted her with a cold hue; she seemed almost ethereal, a spectre his tired mind had simply conjured. 

No, it was not her that was the apparition. He was the lingering spirit, a walking corpse straying too far from his grave. He was tired. Tired of the noise in his head, the constant echoes bouncing around his skull, craving the taste of vengeance.

He was filthy, stained, broken beyond repair. There was no salvation for him, not for the mangled beast he had become. 

And there was no place for a rabid mutt at her side.

A faint buzz broke the silence. The man spared the sleeping woman one more glance and lumbered from the bed, lamely picking up the device that had been resting on the nightstand. The cracked screen offered a quiet glow. 

It seemed that the time had come. 

A soft groan split his lips as he bent to pick up his trousers, tugging them up achingly. She did not stir. He retrieved his coat, scoffing, glad that the fucking butler had at least left it. The man pulled it on over his bare chest, stuffing his phone into the pocket. 

He paused, once more glancing at her. 

No noise did he make as he crossed the distance, carefully reaching out. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, something tightening in his chest. 

“Love.” The man breathed, the word sounding hollow to his ears. It was too kind a word to be uttered by his poisonous tongue. A rueful smile curled his lips and a dark chuckle tore from his throat. Would it please her to hear those words from him? And yet, there was something liberating about repeating them.

He pushed her hair away and lowered his lips to her ear. And just quiet enough, he whispered them to her. They were meant for no one else. 

The woman murmured something in her sleep, shifting faintly. 

He turned away, and then heard her voice, clearly.

“Stay.” 

Quiet. A murmur. She was most certainly still sleeping, simply mumbling incoherently. 

He did not look behind. Without a moment more of hesitation, he left.

The frigid night air greeted him. The gentle babbling of an addict staggering through the lot was the symphony that drifted to his ears. He kept his gaze focused ahead, caring nothing for the unfortunate fool; he had no alms to spare. 

As he approached the dark van, he heard its gentle hum—the motor running. A man slid the door open, seething, no doubt angered by having been disturbed in barest hours of the morning, woken before dawn had opened its eyes.

“What the fuck happened?” Came the embittered hiss as he climbed inside—and the door slid shut again. 

He released a heavy breath and leaned against the metal wall, his gaze dull. “Dorothea was wrong.”

Felix cursed again, settling back against the opposite wall. “And?” A light scoff. “Did you drop your shirt somewhere?” Came the derisive inquiry. “Why’d you come here?”  
He did not answer. The man lifted his eye and peered out the darkened window. Her taste lingered on his tongue, her scent still clouded his mind. Her words. They joined the chorus in his skull.

I.

Love.

................................

She woke to a quiet murmur of her name, someone’s hand gently shaking her awake.

Her eyes fluttered open. Cold. She was cold. 

The woman pushed herself up, rubbing at her bleary eyes and stifling a yawn. “Hubert.” She mumbled, shaking out her bed-mussed hair. Instinctively, she turned her head, lilac eyes searching the space beside her. It was empty and her heart stuttered. 

“Where is…”

Her voice dwindled and fell silent. 

“He was gone before I arrived.” Came the quiet response. Something soft fell over her shoulders.

She nodded meekly, pressing her lips together as she drew the fabric closer. Had she truly been so naïve? Had she truly expected that she would have woken and found him there? She had thought her time of girlish fantasies was long since passed. 

The woman shut her eyes and heaved a breath, achingly pushing herself from the bed. 

“Please clean the sink.” She managed to say, tying the straps of her robe together. There was an emptiness in her heart that she had thus far not allowed herself to dwell upon. Yet it felt all the more potent; impossible to simply disregard.

Hope. Hope was for children. 

“My lady.”

She turned and watched the man approach, his hand outstretched. A strip of black cloth, a stark contrast to his white glove, rested atop his palm. 

With a whisper of hesitation, she extended her hand and took it. It smelled faintly of iron. Her expression remained distant, even as she lifted the piece of fabric and pressed it to her lips. 

She wished she had that luxury.

**Author's Note:**

> I really wasn't going to make a solid, coherent plot--but Goddamn it, that's sort of happening anyway. I don't want to write a multi-chapter story because I know that I won't be able to finish it and I don't want to abandon anything. At least writing one-shots that loosely translate into something that can be made sense of makes up for that?
> 
> Also, I want to practice writing darker content. 
> 
> I'm purposefully avoiding naming anything concretely--the organization, what the transports are for, ect, if anyone is wondering. Only I am privy to that information (Unless someone asks, I guess). 
> 
> Aight, I'mma head out


End file.
